Hard Candy
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: He makes a vicious mental note to bite Ron's finger later. Peter Pettigrew's (a.k.a. Wormtail's, a.k.a. Scabbers') POV. Third year. Oneshot.


**Hard Candy**

Very little writing exists about Animagus, even today. The magic and fortitude required to successfully self-transfigure exceeds most wizards and witches, and even those who do possess the talent often lack the will. Those that can, in fact, transfigure themselves (an astonishingly small number) apparently don't have much to say on the subject except how to perform it.

That is, after all, how they managed to do it. And still in school, to boot. He's secretly proud that he was able to self-transfigure at such a young age. They were all satisfied with themselves—he, and Sirius and James. They were even conceited enough to come up with their own silly nicknames at the time for their little group, the "Marauders". There was Moony, too, of course. He didn't transform by choice, but the important thing was that he transformed. In other words, he was their inspiration. The three of them were Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail.

He'd never fancied the name Padfoot as much as Prongs—Padfoot was a little vague for his tastes—but he rather thought that he had got the wrong end of the wand completely with 'Wormtail'. Between that and Scabbers, he isn't sure which was worse.

Not too many people would name rats anything ordinary, he supposes. And Peter is extremely ordinary, in both namesake and personality. Except that he has been living as a rat for more years than he has claws (since he's, you know, missing one). Indeed, to his knowledge, no one has ever stayed in their Animagus form for more than a few days at a time, and rarely that. Many of those who have studied Animagus postulate that there was even a limit.

If there is, Peter hasn't hit it yet.

He rather thinks that he ought to write his own book someday. You know, after this whole thing is over and done with. The Dark Lord ought to be very pleased to have an underling so knowledgeable in such a rare type of magic. The only problem is getting there. Though Ron has been a decent owner thus far, Peter doubts that the young boy would take kindly to a perfect stranger transfiguring in his palm. And it's alarmingly hard to get away from the boy, no matter how clumsy he acts. Peter keeps his claws crossed for his dream, at any rate.

Although he can't quite remember the day, he knows that he's been with the Weasley family long enough to have gone through the hands of three brothers. (He mercifully skipped over the twins and straight to Ron, as Percy Weasley was an incredibly sensible boy.) Any normal rat would have died a long time ago, even if it was owned by a magical family. In place of suspicion, though, the Weasleys accept Peter's longevity as some sort of lucky omen. A rat that won't die. For Peter, there is even a vague hope that he might outlive Ron—the boy is friends with Potter, after all.

Potter. If he had been human recently, he might have been able to summon more complex feelings about his dead friend's son. Disgust? Guilt? Vindication? As a rat, he only feels a vague suspicion every time he sees the boy. That is his standard emotion for just about everything that isn't openly attacking him.

Rat emotions. He'd have to fit that in his book somewhere.

The only regular instance that Peter is ever truly, honest-to-Merlin frightened is when—

Oh _no_.

His claws skid as he lands on the polished wooden surface of a classroom table.

Transfiguration class.

Never mind the constant fear that he'll be forced to turn back into a human—it's bloody painful when transfigurations go south, and Ron Weasley is by no means an expert wizard. Peter's rat instincts itch at him to run, but he knows that it also hurts when he's caught. Fool boy never did understand his strength. Whiskers twitching, he curls in around himself in a pathetic attempt to hide. The human part of him understands that he's being a little too hopeful, but, damn it, what other options does he have?

At least he can still understand English. McGonagall details the transfiguration from a small rodent to a piece of hard candy. It doesn't sound as bad as the one to a pin cushion. (He'd been asleep for that, and he'd learned a valuable lesson— boring needles into someone's sides was not a nice way to wake him up.) It's worrying that the spell is rather long. Ron never has been good with complex words.

"You may begin."

Peter grits his tiny rat teeth and waits for Ron's first attempt. The boy grumbles something about tongue twisters, then lets out a small sigh. "Sorry, Scabs." He makes an effort to say the spell, but his wand doesn't produce a spark. This does not bode well—whenever he does cast something, Peter would bet his life that it won't be right. Frowning, Ron repeats the spell. This time, a shot of purple spurts from his wand. It takes everything Peter has to dodge it, digging his nails into the desk surface and hauling himself out of the way. He doesn't have time to catch his breath before Ron's hand closes around him.

"No! Bad Scabbers!" The redhead casts a Full-Body Bind before setting Peter back down on the desk. He is now stuck fast, without a chance of defending himself. He makes a vicious mental note to bite Ron's finger later. The Full-Body Bind spell is meant for humans, so it takes all of Peter's energy to breathe. He can't even blink as Ron hoists his sleeves to his elbows.

"Right. Here we go." The spell tumbles haltingly from his mouth, and Peter knows it will go wrong. He braces. At once, his entire body compresses to the size of a knut—but he still needs the space of a rat. The pressure crushes him inside and out. Every sigh of breath he takes in tastes of peppermint, and he is so cold. Peter can't take much more of this. His innards are about to come out his ears. That pesky tail is choking him. Peter needs room. He needs _air_. With that much determination pounding through his tiny, crushed heart, he completely undoes Ron's pitiful transfiguration, and once again, he is a rat curled up on the table.

Oops.

McGonagall is there. Right in front of him. Watching him. She frowns as his whiskers twitch, her eyes suspicious—and much too catlike for Peter's tastes. "Mister Weasley," she begins testily, "however did your spell remove itself?"

"Er… it's not supposed to do that?"

"Of course not!" she states condescendingly. "Only magic could have reversed the effects. Did you cast the counter-spell?"

"No, Professor."

"Then who did?" Her eyes turn back to scrutinize Peter even further. Is it his imagination, or does she look… _hungry_?

"Well, erm. Maybe Scabbers did it."

Oh, how Peter adores fools. They always detract attention from him, as Ron is doing now. McGonagall swivels to stare at him. "Are you implying that your rat can perform spells?" Other students in the class snigger.

"Dad thinks he's, er, magical."

"Does he? And how did your father reach this conclusion?"

Peter feels a bit sorry for Ron now, as his ears are beginning to turn red. "Er, Scabbers is old. He's been in our family since I can remember. Normal rats don't live that long."

"I see." McGonagall sniffs. "In any case, I was not able to judge your results. Try again, Mister Weasley, and _this_ time, make sure your Scabbers cannot undo whatever it is that you've done."

Damn. And here Peter had thought that he'd escaped. He squeaks to himself sadly. Maybe he'll have an addendum in his book about how cruel it is to practice transfiguration on animals, and one day very soon, it won't be him on the table.

This time, Granger has a go, and she turns Peter into a perfect peppermint, stripes and all.

* * *

After writing this, I can honestly say that it probably sucked to be Peter Pettigrew. No wonder he was so evil. How did you like it? Please review!


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